The Wonder of All Things

by Jason Mott

  The fire caught.

  The boy wanted to scream. He wanted to stand and dance and to pick Ava up and spin her around the way people did in movies. But, instead, he gently lifted the kindling from the floor and placed it into the stove where he had already stacked the wood. Now was not the time to get carried away.

  For the next few minutes he sat in front of the stove and watched the fire grow. It danced at the occasional draft, and the fear that it might be extinguished rose up inside the boy each time, but the flame continued to grow until, finally, it was a steady, crackling fire in the belly of the cast-iron stove.

  He laughed then—deep and heartily. “I did it, Ava,” he said. She was still asleep on the floor, unaware of what he had done. For a while, Wash watched her sleep. Her breathing was slow and deep, but still she shivered. So he went over to lie down on the floor behind her and placed his arm around her and pressed his body against her and held the girl tightly. Almost immediately, the trembling stopped.

  “I hope you’re okay,” Wash said, his words brushing against the back of Ava’s neck. And, even though she did not reply, Wash decided that he had done the right thing. He decided that she would be okay. And the knowledge of it was enough that he could fall asleep.

  Beneath the roof of the old cabin, among the dust and the cold night wind that came in through the broken window, carried on the legs of the moonlight, beneath the gentle crackling of the fire and the warmth that was filling the cabin more and more, beneath it all a boy held tightly to the girl he loved and a girl slept in the arms of the boy she loved and the rest of the world did not exist.

  * * *

  Brenda sat on the edge of Carmen’s bed and held her hand and refused to leave her side. She was surprised by how quickly they made it to the hospital. She thought back to the day she brought Wash home after Ava’s first healing. There had been so many people and reporters and cars lined up along the road with no way for a person to get through. Her fear, for Carmen’s sake, was that the crowds would be far worse now, and they would not make it to the hospital. But the roads were mostly clear—only a few other cars, and very nearly all of them heading into town rather than out of it. Police cars, ambulances, news vans, all of them racing into the town as Carmen and Brenda raced out of it. But even though she was thankful on Carmen’s behalf, she still worried about her grandson.

  Yes, she trusted that he was old enough and smart enough to survive a night in the mountains. But she also knew that nothing was the way it had been. The worry formed a ball in her chest that made it difficult to breathe at times. It was only because of Carmen that she did not give in. “How would it look if I went to pieces now,” Brenda said to herself as they reached the hospital.

  “Any word on the children?” Carmen said as they brought her in.

  “Macon’ll sort that out,” Brenda replied. “You got other things you need to see to.” Then she squeezed Carmen’s hand and walked beside her as the pregnant woman was rolled through the corridors of the hospital.

  For Carmen, it was difficult keeping up with what was going on around her. The pain came quickly and it lingered, exhausting and terrifying her. She drifted in and out of consciousness. She could remember being placed on the stretcher at Dr. Arnold’s, but the time when they loaded her into the ambulance was an empty place in her mind. She remembered Brenda talking to her about Wash and Ava as they rode to the hospital, but what was actually said was foggy.

  Carmen smiled and nodded when the nurses came for blood samples and ran back and forth from doctor to doctor with the results. They medicated her and it made everything seem far away and woven from cotton. She lay in bed, holding her belly, sweating and breathing at an uneven pace and thinking to herself about Ava. She pitied the girl. She pitied everything that her life would become from this point forward. Whatever chance there may have been for Ava to have even a modicum of normalcy, it was gone.

  Then someone took her hand. She hadn’t heard anyone come into the room. The medicine had made her vision blurry and he appeared distorted to her.

  “Carmen?” Dr. Arnold said. “Carmen, I just wanted to let you know that I’m here. Everything’s going to be okay. There’s a proper obstetrician here. I’ve discussed your pregnancy with him many times, and he’s going to make sure everything is okay.”

  She tried to read the man’s expression, mining it to discern whether or not he was telling the truth. It was all very foggy and uncertain for Carmen. She could see his face, but it was as if he were far away and gaining distance. She thought for a moment that it was Macon, but she knew that could not be true because he was off trying to find Ava and Wash. And that was where he was supposed to be, she knew—even as she resented him for it. Even as she resented the fact that he had left her here to bring this child into the world or to lose it. The entirety of the decision and responsibility was hers to contend with. She covered her belly and held her baby, as if he had come to take it away. “Is my baby going to be okay?” she asked.

  Then she was asleep and dreaming, and Dr. Arnold was gone, though she could still hear the sound of his voice asking where her husband was.

  And then her husband was there, only it was not Macon; it was Charles, her first husband, the first man she had loved and believed would be by her side for the rest of her life. He looked older than she remembered. But he had aged well, and she hated him for that. She hated the way her heart stirred at the sight of him even though she had grown to hate him over the years. Why would he come to her now, at a time when she was moving on with her life, about to bring into the world the child she had always wanted? That they had always wanted.

  “It wasn’t my fault,” she said to her husband. “I did everything I was supposed to,” she continued.

  “I know,” he replied. His voice was warm and even, the way he always spoke. He had never been an excitable man.

  “It would have been easier if you had died,” she said. “You didn’t have to leave,” she said. “It wasn’t my fault.”

  “You did everything you could,” he said.

  “I tried to make you stay,” she said.

  “You never let go,” he replied.

  “You shouldn’t have run out,” she said.

  “You shouldn’t have sent me away,” he replied.

  And then he was gone and there was only darkness and something swirling about her that felt like wind and she thought she could hear the sound of someone screaming, far off in the distance. Her body tightened and she waited, though she did not know exactly what she was waiting for. It was as if she was waiting for the world to be created, waiting for the mountains to rise up out of the darkness of her mind.

  But again there was the sound of someone screaming in the distance. She could not tell if it was a man or woman, child or adult, boy or girl.

  But she was not alone. There was another life here.

  “You shouldn’t have left,” she said to no one. “And I should have let you go.”

  * * *

  The fire department was finally getting a handle on the blaze. The trucks had doused the flames for long enough and they were receding. It was the people that were the concern now. Everywhere there were injured and dead.

  The firefighters were doing what they could and, mingled among them, were townspeople and strangers and other Samaritans lending aid. They raced from person to person, tending wounds and, sometimes, simply checking for signs of life. It was when the fire near the center of the event was all but extinguished that Isaiah Brown came across Sam’s body. It was torn and broken, but Isaiah could still recognize the childish face of the man. Somehow it had eluded being burned. Though there was blood upon him, Sam looked asleep, caught in a perpetual dream.

  Isaiah lifted his brother and moved him onto the grass in the center of the park. It was a place that the rescue staff decided was centralized enough and far enough away from the dying fire that they could take care of the injured and, when necessary, serve as a place for the bodies of the dead to be
identified. He kneeled beside the covered body of the brother that he could not save, that he could only love over the years, and he pulled back the sheet that covered him. He reached down and stroked his brother’s face. Already the man was cold, the color of his face ashen.

  “I did everything I could, Sam,” Isaiah said. The thought came to him that there were Bible verses appropriate to this moment. Final words of solace that he often gave at funerals.

  But eulogies and epitaphs are not for the dead, but for the living. Sam would not hear his words. He was gone, to make a place for him on the other side, and to await the day when they would be able to speak to each other again—the day when the apology that Reverend Isaiah Brown felt he needed to give his brother would be heard, understood and, he hoped, accepted.

  So for now he only leaned down and kissed his brother’s forehead and tried to keep from crying. “All the broken things will be made whole,” he said softly. Perhaps he said the words out of habit. Perhaps he said them because he hoped that, even though he was dead, Sam was there with him still, watching, listening, able to hear that his brother still loved him enough to say such things.

  Or perhaps the words were intended for his own ears. Perhaps it was his way of letting go: of both the brother he lost in the car crash long ago, and the brother that had come into his life after, the one who wanted nothing more than to have things go back to the way they were, the brother who heard Isaiah say, “Nothing is ever healed,” and who took the words to heart and, because of it, would not forgive himself.

  “You were never broken, Sam,” Isaiah whispered. “Never.”

  Ava and Wash had spent the day playing Commando, slogging through the creek and the bushes and briar. The logging company owned most of the mountain on which they were adventuring and the ditches were six feet deep and nearly twice as wide and they were always filled with water—stagnant and brackish in some places, running and almost clear in others.

  The shadows grew at the base of the trees like spikes. The air cooled and the clouds came up out of the west—gray and heavy—promising the evening’s shower that always came at this time of year. The crickets would soon sing.

  “What’ll we do tomorrow?” Wash asked.

  “I say we go pick briar berries,” Ava replied.

  “They’re called blackberries,” Wash said.

  “That’s not what my mom calls them. And she says that things can be whatever we call them.”

  Wash thought on this for a moment. “Well,” he said finally, “I don’t know if I want to.”

  “That’s just because you fell into that bush last time,” Ava replied, giggling a little.

  Wash blushed.

  They walked in silence for the rest of the way. The mud and water caked upon their clothes hardened with each step. Their skin itched and they wished the rain would come sooner rather than later. The clouds were scraping their shaggy bellies over the peaks of the mountains, but remaining stingy.

  When they reached Peterson’s Fork, they parted ways. They waved goodbye to each other and set off for home. Wash’s grandmother lived on the north end of town, near where the mountains had yet to be much affected by the imposition of humanity. Where the trees were old and rooted deeply into the earth. It was a place where generations of Stone Temple children found themselves and their place in this world—among the shadows of pine and cedar and white oak.

  Ava had heard that Wash’s grandmother owned much of the forest and, for reasons many in the town could not understand, would not let the logging companies have their hands at it. There was money to be made in the selling of the timber, after all. And if Stone Temple lacked anything, it was money.

  When Ava arrived home, she was nervous approaching the house. Her clothes were caked with mud and, no doubt, her mother would have a great deal to say about it.

  When she reached the house, she found it empty and silent. There was only the low hum of the refrigerator and the sound of the wind fluttering the curtains now and again. She called for her mother.

  No reply.

  On the kitchen table she found a letter, the contents of which led her to the barn. It was in the barn that Ava found her mother hanging from the rafters, a length of rope coiled around her neck. An overturned chair at her feet. The only sound was the buzzing of carpenter bees in the bones of the wood and, now and again, a gentle creak of the wooden beam as it struggled to bear the weight it had been given.

  TEN

  WASH COULD NOT tell how long he had been sleeping, but it could not have been very long because the fire was still burning. The cabin was warm and comfortable, in spite of all of the gaps in the walls through which the wind crept. He could smell the sweat from Ava’s skin along with the scent of the pine logs burning. He lingered there on the floor of the cabin, his body cradling Ava’s. All he could think of was the kiss that she had given him and he wondered what he should do next. He closed his eyes and could feel her lips against his: the tenderness of the skin, the cold air washing over them both. The moment grew into hours in his mind, one that he could live in for an eternity.

  But there was a fire that needed tending to. He decided that he should check on it. When he went to lift the arm that was draped across Ava he found her fingers intertwined with his. She held him there.

  “Ava?” he called softly.

  “I’m awake,” she answered in a low voice.

  He sighed. “Good. You had me worried.” He felt her squeeze his hand.

  “I remember her,” Ava said.

  “Remember who?”

  “I remember my mom,” Ava said. “Every time I help somebody, I remember her, the details about her, I mean. The way she smelled, the sound of her voice, the softness of her hands. I didn’t really know how much I had forgotten about her until now.” Her voice shook. “I couldn’t remember the sound of her voice before all of this. I couldn’t remember the color of her eyes. How does that happen?”

  Wash was thankful that Ava had her back to him, that she could not see the despair in his eyes. More than anything, he wanted to say the right thing. But, in the end, he said nothing. The only sound in the small cabin was the fire burning.

  “But I can’t remember all of it,” Ava said. “I just get pieces, glimpses. And I try to talk to her. I try to ask her why she did it, why she killed herself. But she never answers me. It’s like she’s in a play and can’t change her lines. It’s like she can’t stop what’s going to happen to her.”

  “I’m sorry,” Wash replied. It was the only thing that he could think to say.

  “It’s okay,” Ava said, her voice soft, like a secret told in a cathedral. “I’m okay with it all now,” she said.

  It was then that Wash could smell it: the scent of vomit. He sat up and there, on the floor in front of Ava, was a pool of bile and blood. “Jesus,” he said, bolting up from the floor. “Oh, my God, Ava,” he said. He took her arm and helped her sit up. She swayed drunkenly back and forth. He waved his hand in front of her and it took her a moment to focus on him. “We’ve got to go back,” Wash said.

  “I know,” Ava replied. “I just wanted more time with you. I just wanted to—”

  “You can’t save me,” Wash said suddenly. His voice was so low that Ava hardly heard him. But she did hear him. “I’m smarter than the average Pomeranian,” he continued, trying, unsuccessfully, to lighten the mood. “I may not know a lot of things, Ava Campbell. But I know you. I know what you’re thinking.” He took a deep breath and held it. And when he released it, he spoke slowly and there was fear and resignation in his voice. “I know about the leukemia. Everybody thinks that I don’t. Nobody wants to talk to me about it, like that’ll make it go away. But I know about it. I heard one of the nurses talking about it when I was at the hospital. I don’t think she meant for me to hear, but I did. People are rarely as good at keeping secrets as they think they are.” He looked around. “I guess not telling me about it was everybody’s way of helping me. And I guess my pretending that I didn’t
know about it was my way of helping everybody else.” He laughed. “That doesn’t make any sense, does it?”

  “Wash,” Ava began.

  “It’s okay,” he said, holding up a hand to stop her from speaking. “I’ll be okay. I’ve researched it and I’ve got a chance. The survival rate is low, but not impossible. It’s like spotting a white whale, and that’s happened before, right?” He tried to laugh at the joke, but the comedy was not there. “You can’t save me, Ava,” Wash said slowly. “It’ll kill you. We both know it. And I won’t let you try.”

  “You’re something else,” Ava said. Suddenly the shivering began again.

  Wash sat on the floor beside her and placed his arm around her and pulled her close. “You can’t even save yourself,” he said. “But I’ll take care of you. I’ll sing badly and read books you don’t like so you’ll get better, if only to make me shut up.”

  Then he reached over and took her earlobe between his fingers and tugged it, the way she had done to him in the hospital. “I’ll always take care of you.”

  * * *

  It was the dim glow of their firelight that caught Macon’s attention. He could just make out the small cabin planted in the elbow of the mountain, the light from it flickering like a candle in a difficult wind. From outside the cabin he could see a glimmer through the cracks in the broken wood and he could see the silhouette of someone sitting by a dim light of what looked like a wood-burning stove. He could see that it was a child, and he could tell arms were wrapped around their legs, but he couldn’t discern exactly whether it was Ava or Wash.

  He did not hesitate any longer.

  “Ava,” Macon called as he came through the door.

  She looked up at him with an expression on her face of fatigued expectation, as if she were finally waking from a moment she knew, all along, was nothing more than a dream.